


The Quill

by Guardian_Kysra



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Draco is having none of Hermione's either, F/M, Gen, Hermione is having none of Draco's shit, Not a lot of dialogue, Rating went up as of Chapter 10 for mentions of breasts and other sexual-like things, based somewhat on The Enchanted Quill preserved by Franz Xaver von Schönwerth, blatant and ecstatic abuse of parentheses, in other words, should also be titled Luna Explains It All, this is a fairy tale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-31
Updated: 2019-06-10
Packaged: 2020-04-05 06:35:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 15,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19043128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Guardian_Kysra/pseuds/Guardian_Kysra
Summary: One day, while working in Mrs. Figg's garden, Hermione Granger finds a very unusual crow with a very unusual problem.A modern post-war fairytale based on "The Enchanted Quill" preserved by Franz Xaver von Schönwerth.





	1. The Woman and the Crow

**Author's Note:**

> The idea for this came to me after someone proposed a fic fest on a facebook based Dramione group (Strictly Dramione) I JUST joined not too long ago. Unfortunately, I couldn't join the fest but this idea festered until I finally took down notes (on my work docs!) and hammered a multichapter bare-bones narrative. I'm almost finished ALL the chapters so decided to start posting as I'll be going on vacation TOMORROW (thank you Jesus). BEWARE the OOC-ness! 
> 
> Also, this is - like most all of my stuff - unbeta'd so all errors in grammar, spelling and syntax are mine and mine alone.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own 'em. Thank you J.K. Rowling.

After the war, Hermione finds peace in a most unexpected place employed in an unexpected new hobby: in Muggle Little Whinging at the home of Arabella Figg helping the old woman around the house, gardening, and caring for her cat/Kneazle hybrids (in honor of the late Crookshanks). While Hermione had heard of the woman from Harry in passing and seen her a handful of times during Order meetings, the two hadn’t been properly introduced until the Battle of Hogwarts and after, working side-by-side caring for the wounded. When Mrs. Figg had mentioned her hobby of crossbreeding cats and kneazles, Hermione had immediately offered her services in her free time and the two women had become fast friends (much to Harry’s equal parts humor and chagrin).

It is during a weekend when the sky is particularly clear and the air particularly hot that Hermione is on her way back to the garden shed after feeding the kneazles when she spots an injured crow flapping uselessly on the ground, its body heaving with exertion. She decides to nurse the crow back to health and takes it up into a box with large holes punched into the top, furnished by Mrs. Figg. 

It is only the afternoon, and Hermione finds a veterinarian to look at the bird, give her directions on how to care for ‘him’, before taking him home and building a rest area for her new friend in a corner of her room.

The first few days of their cohabitation were fraught to say the least. The bird sleep while she was working the night shift at St. Mungo’s then caw and chortle and scream during the day while she tried to sleep. He would flap his wings in her face, peck at her hands and try to scratch her when she tried to change his dressings and administer medication. When she tried to read, he would hop from his stoop and make himself a nuisance, forcing her to chase him around the room to – first – place him in his cage (a necessity she had not wanted to resort to) then – second – clean up the wreckage of strewn parchment, knocked over books, vases (and other assorted accoutrements though, thankfully, he always managed to steer away from candles), and _feathers_ (which seemed to find their way everywhere they were not wanted, including her bed and – sometimes – buried in the mass of her hair, only to reveal themselves at the most embarrassing, inopportune moment).

However, (not) soon enough, as the days tick by at Grimmauld Place and her shifts at the hospital take up the nights, she begins treating the black bird like a friend – sharing her thoughts, reading her books aloud, discussing case notes, and taking him into confidences even Ron, Harry and Ginny are not privy to. 

Ron says the bird is ugly; Harry is disgusted by its eating habits (despite not being all that different from an owl’s); and Ginny is indifferent to his presence. In contrast, Neville seems to be sympathetic and appropriately concerned for her new “pet” (a word that makes the crow caw and bite tempestuously). Luna merely stares at the bird and whispers a soft "oooh" before murmuring something like "appropriate." 

While she’s nursing the crow, reports come in that Draco Malfoy is missing – she sees this in the Prophet one day and while she spares some concern for his family (though she owes all of them exactly NO favors at all), she figures he’s a grown man free to go where he pleases with or without letting anyone know. 

She tells this to the crow after the third week of having him and the third article featuring an increased reward for information on Malfoy’s whereabouts. She also tells him who Malfoy is to her, how he was the bane of her literal existence through most of their shared Hogwarts years; how he had seemed so distant during sixth year and how she had worried at his decreasing weight, increasing pallor and seeming isolation; how she had never believed him to be evil even after being proven wrong about his status as a Death Eater; and how she had forgiven him for all of his misdeeds toward her and people like her after defending him to the Wizengamot. He had even sent her a birthday present, delivered to her Hogwarts dorm during eighth year – a rather beautiful, understated wrist cuff (no doubt to cover his aunt’s evil work). The accompanying note had stated – in few words – how sorry he was, how utterly guilty he felt for Bellatrix and how he meant no offense by implying she would hide the brand of her arm. 

Hermione smiles softly in remembrance as she speaks, adding that while she sent him an elaborate thank you via owl post, she wishes she had had the opportunity to speak to him in person. She hasn’t worn the cuff in public though sometimes, when she is feeling particularly abraded by the memories, she holds it in her fingers and feels strangely connected to the present, as if her forgiveness and Malfoy’s apology can only exist in the present and this accessory, this symbol leaves no room for the past. 

The crow watches her for long moments with his beady eyes before biting the wire of his cage softly. She interprets the behavior as agreement.


	2. The Crow and the Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione is unprepared by an unfortunate side effect of her new pet crow's molting.

Eventually, the crow trusts her enough to accompany her on daily (nightly? She is still unaccustomed to working nights and the exchange of common terminology therein) errands – somewhat similar to a familiar (she has waxed poetic on more than one occasion how deeply she misses the late Crookshanks. The crow – whom yet remains nameless – always weathers her crying spells over the deceased cat/kneazle with a single squawk or a flutter of wings or nervous legs).

While shopping in Diagon Alley before work (there is still sunlight, the burnished red of evening, so ‘daily’ is probably apropos), she runs into Narcissa Malfoy who is – quite unexpectedly – personally handing out fliers with Malfoy’s picture and last known whereabouts (Hermione figures she feels helpless and needs to DO something even if it’s something so banal. Then she realizes she is psychoanalyzing a Malfoy and decides her time is better spent in other pursuits). She moves to steer clear of Lady Malfoy, however, Narcissa’s frosty blue stare crosses Hermione directly, her expression bland until those striking eyes fall on the bird roosting on Hermione’s shoulder. 

The older woman looks suddenly uncharacteristically taken aback and breathless. She excuses herself, addresses Hermione in a manner of politeness Hermione has only witnessed in stories on the telly. After some pointless small talk, the Malfoy matriarch questions the crow’s origins then asks if Hermione has seen or spoken to Malfoy, punctuating the exchange with a mysteriously significant look. 

Later, Hermione tiredly settles in, readying for bed after an especially busy, emotionally taxing shift, and murmurs she wishes Malfoy would either be found or stop being a complete and utter git and contact his family. She closes her eyes and palms her face, trying to bring life back into her overwhelmed body even as she slowly begins talking, telling the crow about her parents – the things she remembers about them, the things that she doesn’t and wishes she did, about how she took their memories and their lives and how they live in Australia still with their assumed names and no trace of a daughter to remember or find. 

She doesn’t even realize she’s crying until the bird gently butts his head against her shoulder; and they fall asleep (or she does, not absolutely certain if the bird actually sleeps), the bird perched on his . . . perch, her hand on his head.

The next day (evening actually), when she wakes, the bird is molting and utterly insufferable with his caterwauling and flapping wings and horrible, horrible _feathers and fuzz_ all in her things and coffee and breakfast. She is cleaning up around her desk when she spots an especially large feather that seems to have a silvery sheen to it. It is so lovely and eye catching that she immediately thinks it will make a lovely new quill.

Hermione is thoroughly unprepared for the flash of light that breaks into her bedroom or the thump of a large body suddenly thrown on her floor the moment she touches the beautiful feather. She is even less prepared to find that the body is male (thankfully clothed) and of an identity rhyming with _Fake-o Altoi(d)._

After she screams and accuses him of being a perverted peeping tom of an unregistered animagus whilst beating him about the shoulders (her wand is there, of course, but it was highly more satisfying expending her shock physically) for long moments (until he manages to take hold of her wrists, glaring a her with gunmetal eyes that hold some magnetic force that both provokes and soothes), he tells her he doesn’t have much time but that he had a run in with a vengeful witch who asked him for something (what, he doesn’t seem too keen to reveal). When he refused, she cursed him into this crow form until he could find an honest person with an honest wish which he would be forced to grant in the way he refused to grant hers. He explains that he gave his feather to her - in particular (why, he doesn’t seem too keen to reveal that either) to fashion a quill that will (through his own magical core) grant any wish she writes with it. 

He hesitates after this explanation, anticipating her - he wants to be freed but he can’t ask her to use her wishes for that. He (grudgingly) thanks her for caring for him even though he doesn’t deserve it and she doesn’t owe him anything. He then asks her to contact his family. They know of the curse in only the basest of terms and not his whereabouts.

Hermione wants to ask a million questions but remembers his statement of time (or lack thereof) and promises to help him while protesting that she doesn’t want him forced into anything (they’ve both had enough of that sort of thing). 

He insists he knows she will use this opportunity wisely (otherwise he would have flown off weeks ago to find someone more or less worthy) and insinuates they will have a lot to talk about when he is normal again (she blushes brightly at this, cataloging mentally everything she has inadvertently told him of a sensitive nature or that may otherwise be used against her). 

Nary moments later, he is once again a fraction of his human size, covered in black feathers and sporting beak, talons and wings, lifting off out the open kitchen window while Hermione angrily (brokenly) calls for him to come back.


	3. The Man and The Quill

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione is minding her own business when an opportunity presents itself.

Hermione would never become accustomed to the nightmares no matter how worthy the reason for their existence. Nightmares have been plaguing Hermione since before seventh year and the hunt for the Horcruxes, but the last few nights have been especially vivid and horrible; and she looks and feels equally horrible when she wakes.

She throws herself into work and helping neighbors and notably NOT spending time at home. She looks for new books to read, new hobbies to try, new restaurants to patronize and distract herself with. (And pretends she doesn’t feel a certain crow’s beady little so-dark-gray-they-are-nearly-black eyes watching her sometimes . . . _disapprovingly_ (at least that’s how she’s interpreting it).)

It’s while helping Arabella Figg in her garden (just like another fateful day in the not so distant past), she overhears Arabella talking to a neighbor about how she rarely cooks anymore due to her stiff joints and inability to stand for long periods of time. And, just like that, the idea to cook dinner for her elderly friend comes to fruition. . . . 

Despite the fact that – even though she finds the act of cooking enjoyable - Hermione is a completely horrid cook (and Mrs. Figg deserves to be pampered, doesn’t she? Isn’t it right that she have the very best Hermione can offer? The woman helped watch over Harry all those years; pretended to be a complete and utter bore to stay in the Dursleys’ good graces which had to be a hardship in and of itself; defended Harry to the Wizengamot; and took part in a war of magic when she had none to wield herself. At the very least, the old woman deserves a tasty home (well-)cooked meal.)

So Hermione does what she generally does when she sets a goal without the prerequisite knowledge or skills. She goes to the library, researches cook books, takes a cooking class (that she fails, miserably, to the soundtrack of an imagined caw and beating of wings); and when these do not yield the information she is looking for, she talks to Harry about it. 

Unfortunately, he’s not a great cook either – despite cooking for the Dursley’s sometimes (with their high standards – personally she thinks he did a shit job so that they wouldn’t keep ordering him to cook).

That avenue at a dead end, she thinks about asking Mrs. Weasley for advice (or lessons or services . . . Hermione doesn’t strike out any possibilities when she is on a mission), but knows she’s already busy with other things (like Percy’s upcoming wedding and Charlie moving back to England and babysitting her grand-child(ren) and . . . . yes). 

Not to mention, wizarding cooking isn’t something she’s particularly interested in. Part of the gift is the effort, after all. 

She wishes crow!Malfoy were there to talk to – she had found that talking things out aloud to the bird cathartic, helping her clarify the thoughts and ideas often swirling chaotically in her head. Then as she starts bemoaning how she wishes her mother were there too, she sees the crow feather quill lying near fresh parchment on her desk and takes a step toward it but ultimately decides it would be an abuse of Malfoy’s curse to use it.

She goes downstairs to cook dinner (it’s her turn) and manages to burn all three courses (one of which was a no-bake cheesecake . . . somehow). Even the lemonade she had put together was a bad batch – too much sugar (which only Ron appreciated). 

After scrubbing all of the ruined cookware and rubbing down the countertops and table, she retires to her room and takes up the quill, stares at it a moment and remembers his insistence that she use it. What if the granting of wishes was the breaking of the curse?

She takes a deep breath then resolutely dips the nib in ink.


	4. The Quill and the Wish

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione's first wish.

When next she visits Arabella, Hermione offers to make her dinner but warns that she’s not a proficient cook. (By this time, Hermione has become . . . adequate in two dishes, but only just so, and one of them is pancakes which, Harry contests, is basically impossible to fuck up). Arabella is exceedingly grateful, and Hermione gets to work. She’s (stubbornly) attempting to make the same disaster she had tried previously (and subsequently burned – even the cheesecake), following the same instructions, with the same ingredients and – mostly – the same appliances.

This time the cheesecake is store bought. 

She checks things repeatedly as the food cooks. Tastes each dish before they are done. 

Everything is (magically) delicious. (Somehow, this realization makes her feel just a little sour rather than satisfied).

When the final timer dings, Hermione turns around to set the table and is floored when the dishes which only appeared edible before are now food magazine quality, presented on shining gold dishes with sparkling silver utensils and proper, colorful garnish. Even the cheap plastic lemonade pitcher has been transformed into gleaming crystal, blood orange slices adding a little zing to the happy yellow of the drink amid lemon circles.

Arabella enters the dining area and nearly swoons. All of her favorites lined up on the table so beautifully. (Hermione is sure there is no chance she could have chosen all of Figg’s favorites and that the old woman is just being kind). She also joyfully chastises Hermione for bringing her own hardware (but when did you sneak it in?)

They eat and the food is perfect, the drinks are sweetened just right and there isn’t a hint scorch mark or burning scent in the house.

As she finishes serving dessert, Hermione’s mind is working a mile a minute, her stomach heavy with darkness or an overabundance of food (it’s a toss up) as she remembers her wish from last night: _I wish to cook the perfect meal tomorrow night for Mrs. Figg_.


	5. The Wish and The Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione and Draco have a conversation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, folks, you'll have to wait a bit for the rest as those chapters are still being edited. But I should have at least one or two more chapters out tonight so the wait won't be THAT long XD.

Hermione hides the quill every morning but when she gets back home each day it is lying on her desk near a fresh sheet of parchment. Every. Single. Time.

It is a week into this cycle of the-(quill)-came-back when crow!Malfoyappears, flying past her nose just as she’s nearing the house from a day (night, dammit) at work. Roosting upon the light post just outside the front door. She closes her eyes and holds out an arm. With a bit of preamble (unnecessary preening), he flits down with a soft caw and settles on her forearm to tug at her hair (gently) with his beak (somehow escaping a tangle). 

Once safely ensconced in the house, in her room, the crow shifts into the man and immediately asks her why she hasn’t been using the quill (“Wasn’t the meal satisfactory? The dishes sparkling enough? The drink perfectly refreshing and sweet? Were you both not excessively pleased?”) 

She glares at him and asks how he came to know about the dinner (“Stalking me, are you?”). 

But he doesn’t rise to the bait (for once). Instead, he says he granted the wish, of course he knows.

Wanting a fight and not getting it from a usually reliable source has Hermione somewhat off-kilter as she reveals she hates the idea of ANYONE'S servitude, (“Even yours, Malfoy”), and doesn't want to use him that way. 

He pins her with a look she struggles to identify as she’s never seen the like on his face with his features before. He tells her, seriously, granting wishes will eventually set him free. And then, like the self-preserving Slytherin, he is, Malfoy takes a calculated gamble and appeals to her sense of heroism. "I'll owe you, Granger".

"The prospect of your indebtedness is of no concern to me." There’s . . . something in that unidentifiable look of his, something that makes her a touch breathless. Something that makes her voice thin and (unintentionally) soft.

He smirks (and it isn't like the evil little self-satisfied smirks he once threw across the great hall as her teeth grew and grew and grew and gr . . . ) "and that's why you're worthy of my . . . special ability." She appreciates that he doesn't use the word "services" and glances back at the quill on her desk near parchment.

"Are there rules of what type of wishes are permissible?" Because she’s thought about this at length and doesn’t want to be god-like or alter anyone’s will or waste selfish.

This time he smiles. Genuinely. It makes his eyes shine and her breath catch (again). For the first time, she can see how attractive he actually is (she now owes apologies to all of her roommates and other female wizarding friends who had tried and failed to convince her of this), and it twists something in her that she didn't know existed. It almost feels as if she will swoon but that's ridiculous. 

"I've no doubts that your wishes will be nothing less than altruistic." He’s pawing at her desk, moving the parchment to lie straight and exact in the center.

She tells him (grumbling) she's not a saint, but he simply gives her that look that she finds so strange on his face; and it hits her suddenly, straight in the chest as her breath leaves her (yet again) – it looks like tenderness. 

His body begins to glow a pale gold, and she suddenly knows their time for conversation is coming to an end. 

She stands numbly watching, feeling a tingle in her hands as the thought crosses to reach out and touch him. (She doesn’t). He meets her eyes directly and she feels that strange breathless feeling again only stronger. It rises to her throat (though she doubts she has the faculties needed to speak at the moment) even as he lifts a hand in farewell. "Till next time, Granger."

And just like that, the crow once more blinks at her from his perch on her desk before taking wing and leaving through the open window (again). 

Hermione has the sudden urge to stomp around and scream like a tantruming two year old. Instead, she taps her foot, turns to the parchment on her desk, sits down and stares at nothing.


	6. The Heart and the Hurt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione makes her second wish but has trouble convincing herself that it should be granted. Draco doesn't have this problem.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Really, next chapter might not be up as fast.

She takes to bringing the quill with her wherever she goes, in case she sees an opportunity to do good. (This is what her brain asserts on the many occasions she flies into internal debate about the wisdom of carrying such an item. Her heart whispers something much different and quite alarming).

It has crossed her mind to wish for her parents' to remember her but that would be a selfish wish, only affecting her and her family; and she is certain this (her happiness) is not what the feather is meant for (not that she actually _knows_ or even hypothesizes what it is meant for. Her research into the nature of Malfoy’s curse has turned up absolutely nil). 

So she goes about her business as normal: works at her healer apprenticeship; keeps up her chores at home; makes her rounds visiting/helping Arabella, the Weasleys, Andromeda and Teddy; sometimes babysitting Victoire, sometimes babysitting Teddy, sometimes babysitting _both_ tots; and pursues her own interests (reading, research, and gardening) which - admittedly - doesn't leave much time for thinking on wishes. She becomes sort of disappointed at this failure of imagination, but Malfoy had seemed so confident in her that she finds herself not worrying overmuch. The right circumstance will present itself, she thinks.

And it does, though not in the way she had (vaguely) imagined, and when she writes the wish down before she can stop herself (sitting on the floor of the hospital loo with tears on her cheeks and hands shaking with the lagging flush of adrenaline and rage).

There is a flash of light just outside the stall before the stall door unlocks on its own and opens to reveal human!Malfoy, looking down at her with a quixotic expression, his eyes - for a moment - reflecting something resembling concern before going flat and unreadable. 

She covers her face mumbling something about promising herself she would never let him see her cry. She doesn't see his stricken expression and it's gone before she wipes the tears away and gracefully accepts an offered monogramed (of course) handkerchief. 

He lowers to his haunches (which Hermione secretly, in a distant healthy part of her traumatized psyche, finds fucking _hilarious_ ) and asks what the wish is about. 

She hiccups and says he doesn't need to worry about it. She had written the wish in a fit of pique and he shouldn't be held to grant it. (“It’s selfish and petty anyway, and . . . I don’t want to harm anyone.”)

He shakes his head and says he will grant it, but she needs to be more specific. (“So that I don’t incidentally kill or maim anybody.” He pauses, giving her a once over so heated she can feel a sizzle to her bones. “ . . . even if they probably deserve it.”) He asks her again what happened and there is something in his soft tone that reminds of her when he was just a crow that needed someone to care and how lovely it was to have someone to talk to about the things she could never seem to talk to Harry and Ron or Ginny and Luna about.

So she tells him about Cormac and the “harmless” flirting (that feels more like assault oft times) and about how she can usually handle it (though, there is a part of her – buried beneath a pile of rationalizations and excuses - that is honestly scared of him in the most primal of fashions because she recognizes that he is most attracted to those caught fearful and nervous). She tells him that Cormac must have noticed some of her “weaknesses” (also known as PTSD) – she doesn’t like sudden loud noises, people sneaking up on her, or sudden flashes of light. 

(Malfoy mumbles an apology for the flash of his magic and she gives him a tremulous smile.)

She tells him Cormac wasn’t supposed to be on her floor that night (after several complaints from herself and other female staff) yet he managed to 1. Sneak up on her while she was in the store room sorting potion, effectively cornering her by locking the door 2. Popped a lit sparkler in her face because it’s some obscure holiday like the International Day of Happiness or something equally banal then (the Mother of all Sins) 3. Kissed her without consent (with his slimy, disgusting tongue!). She then slapped him and (the Father of all Sins) he punched her (she’s fairly certain she will have a very large bruise spanning her left cheek into her hairline). 

When she reported everything as it went down, _she_ was written up and dressed down as if it was _her_ fault (Cormac underlined that she hit him first and he was acting in self-defense. Somehow the kiss and manhandling were not considered assault in the wizarding world). 

She averts her eyes as she tells Malfoy this behavior is not unusual with Cormac – with her and the other women in the office – and every report is given the same treatment, they basically appease with a promise to investigate like they have “investigated” previous reports. 

She shakes her head and says that she shouldn’t be so surprised as the wizarding world seems to be stuck in the 1800s in certain social areas and even the Muggle world doesn’t deal with sexual harassment as it should. (And she swears, come hail or high water, she will fucking _fix. it._

Malfoy asks her – his voice strangely tight, his hands balled into fists at his sides - what she wishes he would do to fix this. She reiterates that it is a selfish wish. (“I full heartedly retract it.”) 

But he blatantly refuses to let her. (“It isn’t the wish I’m here to clarify or debate but the broad stroke of it.”)

The wish: _I wish Cormac Mclaggen and those like him would get their comeuppances._

Hermione tells Malfoy she trusts his judgement (which feels as weird coming out of her mouth as it does in her brain when she realizes it’s true). “Just don’t kill them.”

He smirks at her and this time it seems a secret shared between them. It makes her face go hot and her palms sweat. She suddenly feels the need to twist her hair and bare her neck, but she folds her hands in her robes and squeezes her thighs together, _desperately_.

He says, “Very well,” straightens and turns to leave, but pauses, turns around and lowers himself to one knee before her, touching fingertips to her chin and lifting her head a fraction of an inch to him. She feels his thumb feather over the bruise over her left cheek before a tingling sensation erupts, following his thumb and over her jaw and down her neck. 

His eyes are unreadable as he takes her sweaty hand in his, pulls her up to face a mirror. 

Her cheek is clear. He has healed her. 

His gray eyes are dark as they hold hers in reflection. “Take care of yourself, Granger.”

Then he is gone in a flap of wings and a flash of light.

As she stuffs the parchment and quill in her bag, flustered and not understanding why, it occurs to her that he was able to remain human much longer this time.


	7. The Hurt and the Guilt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco makes good on Hermione's wish. Hermione has mixed feelings.

In the days that follow her last wish, there is a rash of absenteeism seemingly in every department from the lowest rungs of orderly to the most senior of administration. The reason for which comes to light when it’s revealed Cormac and a handful of other male colleagues (many from the review board) suddenly discover that they have lost their external genitalia only to be blessed with the breasts and cunts they’ve been collectively chasing most of their post pubescent lives.

They are forced – by their female and less offensive male supervisors - back to work and their normal lives when the (curse? Hex? Enchantment?) refuses to respond to even extreme magical measures and hiding is no longer feasible. 

Hermione watches as they struggle in the day to day, sure that – at first – they were all chuffed at having “fun bags” and a “ready kitty” to play with (sometimes – disgustingly – in public). She watches as they navigate the streets and the odd catcall or a brush against breasts, unwanted flirting and the constant assumptions that things need to be explained to them because they are women; and part of her feels badly about it – a small part but it exists and she wishes fervently that she could talk to Malfoy about it. 

(But It isn’t quite large enough of a part to wish for it to end just yet).

Within days of their debut the men-in-women’s-bodies all seem to fall (confusedly, painfully,) to their menses without grace or filter; and Hermione, while she tries to help and inform, can see the cattiness from the women-from-birth and the snickers from the men-who-were-not-cursed, and she realizes that – perhaps - this has gone too far. 

She doesn’t want anyone to end up hurt in the least and _pregnant_ at worst. (The world is not ready for that sort of horror. She is not ready for that level of _guilt_.)

Resolving to wish it to end that morning, she floos home just as Harry and Ron are sitting to breakfast, throws her bag to the bench and rummages for her parchment and the quill.

She doesn’t see them exchange a glance before Harry asks how things are at St. Mungo’s. “I’ve heard there’s been a rash of strange magical phenomena”). She tells him about it (but in the most general terms) and outlines what has failed to solve it (glossing over her own responsibility). 

Ron mutters that it must be a nightmare for those blokes. Hermione tightens her grip on the quill and stares at the parchment as if to incinerate it. Ron remains oblivious to her ire (which isn’t unpredictable at all. It isn’t the first time she’s contemplated the need to move out and into her own flat). 

Shooting their best friend a subtle glare, Harry asks how she’s been and notes she’s seemed distracted lately. “I just want to make sure you’re okay. We never see you anymore really and you lost that crow you were so attached to . . . I . . we just worry.”

Before she can speak, Ron says, “Good riddance, the blighter never liked me anyway.”

Hermione hides a giggle (not really understanding (or not wanting to admit) why this is amusing) and tells Harry that she’s just tired – it’s a transition, working nights and sleeping days. As for the crow, she shows him her quill, at least she has something to remember him by (besides the wishes and the visits – both of bird and man). He gets up to clean his plate and kisses her head before he heads out. Her heart fills with warmth and the knowledge _this is my brother and I love him_.

Ron follows shortly asking if it’s her night to cook and she says yes, he asks her to cook what she made Arabella “the old crone won’t stop nattering about it.”

Hermione merely shakes her head and looks down at the “wish parchment” as she has taken to calling it and taps the inked end of her quill to the sheet.

She’s not sure how long she sits there thinking but the next thing she knows, she is awakening in the sunshine of high noon, slouched half atop the kitchen table, the quill still in hand and ink blotted across the parchment. There is a palpable warmth next to her, something solid and strong smelling of wind and sunshine and wood and grass, something altogether _wild_.

“Malfoy?” She blinks up at him groggily, wipes her eyes. 

He smiles – a real one – and her heart quickens and her eyelids flutter with the sudden nervousness. He says “Hello again, Granger.” There is a definite affection in his tone that her brain is having trouble categorizing as something recognizable and real. 

She wants to ask where he’s been. Instead, “Can you stay awhile?”

As soon as she hears the words in her own voice, she wonders at the wisdom of possibly swallowing her own tongue.

He tilts his head, studying, not unlike a bird. She imagines he’s asking himself what she is pondering: “I think so. I don’t control the transformation, but with every wish, I’m given more time. This last wish was quite extensive, so I’m reasonably sure I shall be humanoid for a rather choice bit.”

She sits up straighter, her body unconsciously turning toward him where he sits perched upon the table top, his dress shoes braced solidly against her bench. “I’ve been meaning to ask, where do you go when avian?”

His gaze had never leaves her – not once – and it is starting to feel vaguely intrusive and uncomfortable, but she doesn’t take it back. There is nothing threatening or cruel in that gaze. Just an intense brand of interest that she is thoroughly unfamiliar with. “Here and there. Most times I return to the manor grounds. Sometimes I’ll remain out in the open. Other times, I find ways to watch you.”

“Watch me?” She suppresses a shiver. This is another thing that she does not like along with sudden loud noises, people sneaking up on her, and bright flashes of light.

He seems utterly unapologetic. “I’m waiting for your next wish.”

“I was going to wish for the previous one to end.”

“Already done. I had already assumed you would not want the effects to be permanent.”

She thanks him with a smile and reaches out to grasp his hand. When skin touches skin – the first time she’s touched human!Malfoy willingly since their 3rd year altercation – she feels as if a soft pure fire has erupted beneath her skin causing a full body flush and her thoughts to scatter.

He seems similarly affected, swallowing thickly beneath reddened cheeks and averted eyes. 

She lets go, unsure of her welcome, and clears her throat with some difficulty. “You told me you cannot ask me to wish you free. Can’t I just wish you free of my own will?”

He shakes his head, runs a hand through his hair. She tracks the movement, notes that he has beautiful hands – strong looking, capable, with long fingers and clean nails. “One of those rules I neglected to mention.”

She hums noncommittally as he turns the full force of his piercing eyes on her, pinning her silent. “Regardless, thank you for thinking of me, Granger.”

“Of course, you’re my –“ _What_ is he? Her pet? Her friend? A (former) enemy . . . . classmate? She no longer thinks of him simply as a classmate, no longer regards him as something nefarious like an enemy and he – obviously – isn’t truly a pet; and as long as he doesn’t spit hateful epithets her way nor repeat denigrating propaganda, she has found him to be good company. She settles, accepting, “You’re my friend. I want you to be . . . free.”

With the quirk of one brow, he sends her assertion to the bottom of her gut, making her question everything for the thousandth time until he smiles and very intentionally leans down.

Despite seeing it coming, she is utterly gob smacked when his mouth touches hers. For that little moment, everything stops – her racing thoughts, her breath, her blood, her muscles, time itself – and she doesn’t know what to do or say or think when everything resumes.

He’s chuckling to himself before shooting her a saucy wink. “Friends, indeed.” He’s shaking his head as if in disbelief (a sentiment she feels quite deeply) as he jumps down from the table and shoots her a mock chastising look. “Keep wishing, Granger.”

Then he’s gone again, leaving her feeling decidedly empty and wondering if his parting words is in reference to her actual wishes or her assertion of friendship.


	8. The Guilt and the Dragon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Exhaustion sets in. Draco grants another wish.

Though she’s already overloaded with work – nightly rounds, case study reports, charts, inventory, and other miscellaneous grunt work at St. Mungo’s; chores, helping Mrs. Figg, required reading and research (for the internship), and helping Ron and Harry write their own reports at home (she knows she shouldn’t but likes being relied on – it is, she thinks, one her most effective personality flaws), Hermione meets out a little time to redouble her efforts unraveling Malfoy’s curse (sleep has been a scarce commodity since the Forest of Dean and the war anyway) . . . and summarily – once again - frustrated by the lack of anecdotal and practical information.

It occurs to her to wonder at how vague and elusive he had been when explaining how he had come upon such a curse, how he had neglected to define the parameters of effect as well as cure. All she knows is that he is allotted some unspecified amount of time as a human after he grants a wish with the time lengthening with each progressive wish. Given that information, it wouldn’t be too much of a theoretical stretch to posit that after an equally unspecified amount of granted wishes, the curse would be lifted and he could go about his merry way, none the worse for wear.

(Which begs questioning: how many people must he grant wishes for? How many quills has he released? If it is as she suspects and she is the sole holder of his curse-breaking wish-giving feather, why her? Is there some significance? Is it simply because she acknowledged him and kept him in captivity to nurse his injuries? Is it because she showed him kindness when he was helpless even though she knows intimately just how much of a git he is?)

She sits back, taking her hands from the book in front of her, pretends there isn’t parchment and quill beckoning at the corner of her desk. Her eyes close as her body releases all tension. 

If she just had more information . . . . If she just had more sleep . . . . Maybe her brain would make the correct connections to solve this, maybe she wouldn’t feel so fuzzy.

The fatigue is starting to effect multiple aspects of her life – Harry commenting on how tired she looks (Ron chiming in that she looks ghastly and would she please cover up the circles under her eyes with a bit of make up so he has something pretty to look at for the five bloody minutes he gets with her in the mornings); small mistakes in her record keeping, misreading potion labels, dozing in the broom cupboards at hospital. She’s lucky she hasn’t killed or seriously maimed someone with her spell work of late. But she doesn’t know what to do (a painful confession if ever there was one). There are several drains on her time which means even finding enough time to sleep is a challenge; dreamless sleep draughts have lost their efficacy; and when she does – briefly and infrequently – collapse into slumber, it is fitful with nightmares and memories better off forgotten. On the sometimes when her sleep is violent, when she sleepwalks or wakes in full on terror, she rises especially exhausted, a pressing weight aching inside of her skeleton and settling cold among her guts.

With a certainly that is startling, she knows she can’t keep going like this.

_Snick._

_Snick snick._

_Snock_.

Wearily, her bloodshot eyes open. She doesn’t bother rubbing against the dry, grainy feel of her corneas. 

There is a bird-shaped shadow projecting through the curtains, and the _scratch scratch_ of talons skirting glass. _Draco_.

Slowly (damn near arthritic) she stands, knees and shoulders and spine cracking loudly in the quiet house. With one hand to the small of her back, she edges toward the window and brushes aside the curtain to see beady silver eyes flashing amid black feathers. With deft fingers, she unlatches the window, lets him in. He flaps gracefully to her desk, perches there with a blind shake of his wings and nervous feet.

“Hello Draco.” Simple. Quiet. (And surprising. She had meant to call him “Malfoy”.) She tries a smile but it trembles from her lips even as her entire face and eyes began to sting and her throat works to dislodge the lump that has suddenly taken up residence there. 

And then she is inexplicably _crying_ (she’s not surprised she is crying, not really . . . . there are so many things to cry about and so little spare alone time to actually cry about them) and her fingers are pressing deep into her eyelids and burning, burning eyes as her body shakes with the force of release. Soon, her nose is leaking thick streams of mucus (she spares a solid ten seconds to think about how unattractive she must be right now as she is a champion ugly crier) and she can’t control her vocal cords as she sobs quietly – always quietly (she doesn’t want the boys – who aren’t even home – to know or worry).

Bird!Draco watches her, his entire body poised but utterly still, one silver eye aimed directly at her, unmoving. When she meets that striking, predatory gaze – when he knows without a doubt she is paying attention – he sidles over to pick the quill up into his beak. 

When she doesn’t immediately take it, he steps to the edge of the desk and leans as much as he is able toward her, his head bobbing, urging: _Take it. Make a wish_. 

Furiously wiping at her wet cheeks and equally furiously trying NOT to think of what Draco must be thinking of her (then being furious at herself for even worrying about something so completely stupid), Hermione reaches for the quill with a shaking hand. Not even bothering to sit, she scribbles her wish onto the parchment and sets the quill down again with more restraint than she believes herself capable of. 

A strong hand, larger than her own, strays into her field of vision and she looks up – startled – to find human!Draco’s stormy gray eyes peering down at her to return, “Hello, Hermione.”

The sound of his voice forming her _given name_ – gravelly from disuse but soft and warm as a well-loved blanket, prompts another round of crying which he weathers by unexpectedly pulling her into him and rocking her a little in his arms. 

The comfort, from such an unexpected quarter as _Draco Malfoy_ , has Hermione stunned for long moments even in the midst of her emotional upheaval. She thinks again of that question that had cropped up some time ago: _What is he (to me)_? She wonders if _friend_ is still an appropriate answer.

Eventually she simmers down to sniffles and he pushes her just far enough away to see her face (which had somehow become buried in his chest (which she tries not to think of as firm and comfortable), his scent (freshly mown grass, wind and dirt with a touch of wildflowers) in her nose and his warmth intimately stored up in her clothes. 

As he watches her silently, studiously (like a fucking bird), she’s all too aware of how she must look, all red nose and flushed skin and swollen eyes, hallmarks of a truly “ugly” cry (and really, who first made that distinction as if crying is at all attractive in any circumstance other than happy occasions?). She sniffles again under his scrutiny even as she holds her breath when his hands come up to frame her face and his thumbs wipe away the residue of her tears.

“There now. Shall I grant your wish?”

Suddenly, she has second thoughts. “It’s a selfish wish.” 

He smiles that genuine smile that she’s secretly daydreamed about on lunch breaks. “You deserve to be selfish.”

She blinks. His hands fall slowly from her face to skim fingertips along her neck before settling on her shoulders, slightly damp thumbs tracing the line of her collarbones. She swallows heavily. “No. It’s okay. I’ll think of something else.”

Her eyes drift over to the parchment. The words are stark black against the off-white, _I wish to sleep without nightmares or night terrors, if only for just a handful of days._

Draco’s hands glide down her arms to twine fingers into fingers. The touch is more intimate than anything she has experienced thus far in her young life (though she and Ron had given dating a shot with kisses and light petting, it hadn’t felt like this which makes her very sad on some level that exists with all of her expectations), and she feels that connection so deeply it startles her, her eyes finding his. He still watches as if waiting for something, and then he is bending forward to press his lips to her forehead and the heat of that kiss is enough to warm her entire body.

The fact that such a sensation came from Draco Malfoy . . . . She honestly doesn’t know what to think about this weird codependence they have formed between them. 

“Sleep well, darling.” 

She opens her mouth to say he doesn’t have to grant this wish (and why did he call her ‘darling’ – what happened to ‘Granger’ and ‘swot’ and ‘mudblood’ - not that she wanted to go back to the derogatory terms – even ‘Hermione’), that she has a million things to do, and that she is scared to see Bellatrix standing over her again (laughing, always, always laughing until Hermione’s bones vibrate painfully with the sound); but her knees are no longer holding her up and as the world blurs around her, she feels her body being swept up into strong arms. 

“Nothing will harm you, love. I won’t allow it.” She closes her eyes, suddenly feeling safe for the first time in a long, long while (so long, she has nearly forgotten) and _sleeps_.


	9. The Dragon and the Lioness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What does every good fairy tale have? A ball. Does this one? Darn tootin' it does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hermione's thoughts on her looks are autobiographical. This is not a treatise on beauty. This is not vanity. It is not intrinsic to her character or even really important; but most every person on earth wants to be noticed - not ALL the time but every now and again it's just NICE to be looked at and told, "Hey you are really beautiful" or even a simple "You look so nice today." I've only been told I was beautiful ONCE and it was at a work training. I was eating lunch with some of the guys (I was the only woman because I work in a male-dominated field) and I had taken care to dress up even though I ALWAYS look disheveled (I have no idea how this comes about but it's true) and we were talking about marriage and dating and shit - I was the only single person - and this man I'd only met a day prior looks me in the eye and says, "I can't understand how a beautiful woman like you is single." And I hold onto that memory because that was the first and last time anyone besides my family and close friends had ever called me beautiful. I'm not a shallow or vain person but I remember that as a very happy memory - possibly patronus worthy XD
> 
> Hermione's cowlicks are autobiographical as well. I have straight hair though so growing it out weighs them down but I will NEVER have a neat up do of any kind. My son, unfortunately, inherited my cowlicks and his donor's (yes, for those who don't know, I used a sperm donor to have my baby boy, it's not a euphemism) curls so . . . yeah. And yes, we grow his hair out otherwise he looks he hasn't brushed his hair in a century (he's only 7). Blow drying makes him look he just stuck his finger in an electrical socket. I have only just - a few days ago - discovered the miracle of the diffuser attachment!
> 
> Also, Draco's description on how Hermione snores - that's me too.

He is there, still human, when she wakes with her alarm (which he had apparently set himself because – apparently – wonders never cease), merely sitting at her desk, watching over her. His eyes reflect that strange palpable affection (that never fails to take her breath) as she stretches and yawns. He smirks when she tells him softly that she feels refreshed.

“You snore, you know.”

“I most certainly do not!”

He chuckles, “Yes, you do. It’s like a sigh and a whisper. Very quiet and proper. The most ladylike snore I’ve ever had the privilege of hearing.”

Her jaw drops (wondering just how many sleeping ladies he’s experienced, then slams her mental door on the memories of school gossip she had been forced to listen to from her dorm mates – it’s really none of her concern) and shakes her head, unable to deal with this strange alternate version of him that has become – somehow – a new normal. 

Four days later: She has not seen (hide nor feather) nor heard from either bird or man since (though she has a suspicion he still watches her when she sleeps . . . . thus far without nightmares or night terrors). If only for that, he deserves (and has) her heartfelt gratitude.

(Which is so strange because it’s _Draco Malfoy_ , and she’s finding that she genuinely likes talking to him – as fowl and man . . . though mostly as a man (and not only because he can talk back).)

She scrubs a pot in her hands a little harder to banish thoughts of the blond Slytherin while vocally mourning her sodden sleeves and frizzed out hair. She doesn’t think of her appearance often (less because she doesn’t really care and more because no matter how hard she tries, she always looks _just a smidge_ rumpled and sloppy even in dress robes and make up), hasn’t really made such a priority in childhood up to now. 

But tonight is another event that she must endure with her boys because they are _guests of honor_ for the rather basic skill of _surviving_. Her dress robes are laid out on her bed – a lovely gradient aqua that shimmers like sea water beneath the sun – and she anticipates that, despite the flattering cut, the material will hang off her like a shapeless oyster sack (even after magical tailoring). 

She knows this is the case because newspaper photographs always reveal what she didn’t see in the mirror before she leaves home. Printed comments beneath those photographs always speak the truth about her sense of presence (no matter how much she rails against them).

It shouldn’t bother her, comments on her appearance (which have always been – consistently – of the negative variety it seems). And the bald words shouldn’t surprise her either. 

She knows she has the most difficult hair on the face of the planet. The very curl and thickness of it would warrant a certain level of unmanageability, but the vast number of cowlicks are what make the mass of brown frizz completely untamable in the best of circumstances (even with the field advantage of an entire case of Sleek Easy hair potion which weighs her hair down to the point of almost greasy lankness.)

(Her vague hopes of solving the problem of her coif by thinning out the mass via razor then growing it out in the hopes of weighing down her curls reaped inconclusive results at best. The one time she tried cutting it short proved disastrous – revealing the true extent of cowlicked mayhem until it looked as if she had quite happily stuck her finger into an electrical socket no matter how much product she used or how hard she brushed, combed, and ironed). 

But none of that matters – not her clothes or their fit or her petite height and build or the sad state of her hair despite all best efforts. She isn’t known for her beauty (save for that one shining moment in fourth year that she always goes back to in her head when – in those rare moments - she feels especially the need to be beautiful even if just to herself). In fact, only one person (that wasn’t her parents or Mr. and Mrs. Weasley or Harry or Ron – all of whom are obligated to say such things because they love her) had ever called her ‘beautiful’ to her face and that was Viktor Krum (see shining moment, fourth year – and, really, how utterly _depressing_ is it to have hit her feminine peak in bare adolescence, never to rise to such a pinnacle again). 

She would never forget that because – at that moment – she had _felt_ genuinely beautiful; rather than a self-made facsimile of the feeling.

But that doesn’t really matter either. She’s known and relied upon for her brain, her cleverness, her entirely too familiar relationship with books and libraries. Which is why she wishes all the articles in Witch Weekly and the Prophet and even the Quibbler wouldn’t drag her looks and fashion sense and lack of love life through the proverbial mud tomorrow morning even while those same articles will list Harry and Ron’s accomplishments, their aspirations, their successes.

As if she were just window dressing and not one of the _main reasons_ The Boy Who Lived Again and Again survived past the ripe age of eleven to reach adulthood.

She paused in her scrubbing to wipe a damp forearm across her sweaty brow. 

Her fingers felt chapped and itchy, rough. She remembers Lavender and Pavarti with their many lotions and potions and make up and charms, so concerned with their hair and lashes and unblemished skin. 

It isn’t that Hermione wasn’t interested in those things. It isn’t that she didn’t want to be pretty and attractive. It was that, first, from the moment she could identify what friendship was, the road to that type of relation seemed closed; and second, when she had managed to make friends, she was dragged into a struggle that exploded into a war and there were just too many (MUCH MORE IMPORTANT) things to worry about in contrast to fashion, hair styles, boys and how to catch their attention . 

But – she must be honest, at least with herself – even without all of that, she probably would have still ended up where she is right now in terms of fashion sense and social popularity. 

In primary, her classmates were more interested in running around outside playing yard games or flitting about the toy chests or play acting mums and dads or cops and robbers whilst she was always curled up on a cushion in the corner with a book. And that was before the accidental magic started manifesting. Everyone became afraid of her which insured she would – eventually – be bullied relentlessly.

From the moment she first arrived at Hogwarts, all fresh and ready to meet others she had been rejected again and again. Still an insufferable swot. Still not girly enough for the popular clique. Still awkward and – worse – labeled as completely inferior by an entire quarter (if not more) of the school for her parentage.

For a large chunk of the first few months, she was largely left alone; but she wrote to her parents nearly daily, glossing over the strange circumstances of wizarding politics and social inequities and her own loneliness. 

She never told them either, the true story of how Harry and Ron moved from ignoring (and borderline bullying in Ron’s case) her to best friends status. 

(It was something she never truly forgets – that her friendship with Harry and Ron hinged on a near-death experience at the hands of a troll as if her “nightmare” status could only be forgiven by such.)

And then it was all about thwarting Voldemort and dodging Death Eaters and defying corrupt Ministers and Ministry propaganda, making sure Harry not only made it out alive but also _sane_ (the second much more difficult than the first, really) and somehow _surviving_ , as it boiled down to just the three of them in a tent without a clue or a prayer, hunting for a crazed Dark Wizard’s hidden puzzle-piece soul even as they themselves were being hunted in a much more traditional fashion.

It occurs to her that all of these thoughts have been repeated to crow!Draco before she knew he was Draco Malfoy, and the realization burns into her bones outward with vulnerability.

Desperate to think of anything else, she finishes scrubbing the dishes, washes her hands, takes in the state of her short nails, sighs and turns away from the sink before moving upstairs to her room and her ill-lying dress robes and the veritable stockpile of hair products and make up compacts, tubes and sticks lined up on her desk and dresser and bed. 

Sighing again and tamping down the dread that always rises when she is faced with these things, she starts cataloging the hair products, picking and choosing what she will actually use and discarding the others into an identifiable separate pile.

Distantly, she worries that she’ll be expected to dance. (Not that she doesn’t like dancing. She actually enjoys it quite well; however, dancing – at these functions – often more resemble pop-up business meetings rather than entertainment). She hasn’t been informed if she is to speak, but she begins constructing a little speech in her head anyway.

It takes a solid hour to wrestle her hair into some semblance of “presentable”. It takes another thirty to paint her face to her satisfaction (she never really wears the stuff and so it’s an experiment every. Single. Time.)

By the time she drags the material of her robes along her flanks and clips her mother’s earrings (given to her for the Yule Ball when she was fifteen) and the golden cuff Draco had gifted her a birthday ago, she’s feeling and looking like a little girl playing dress up and it is nearly time to depart. Sighing in long-suffering resignation, she moves to travel downstairs but pauses, catching the black curve of the quill peeking above her open make up case. 

Smiling softly, she picks it up and runs the softness of the vane down her cheek, under her chin, across her lips . . . 

Realizing what she is doing and wondering at the implications (if there are any – she’s so fucking confused and she _hates_ it), she immediately lowers the quill, feeling a useless full-body blush for no apparent reason (and definitely not because she had been thinking of the man behind the feather or so she tells herself, repeatedly).

Before she can convince herself otherwise, she quickly jots a wish on a nearby scrap of parchment she had used as a lipstick blotter, slamming the quill down on her desk when she’s done and immediately apparating to the party (notably trying NOT to think of what Draco will think of this wish and – more importantly – how he will grant it) as she holds onto her courage like a lifeline.


	10. The Lioness and the End

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione goes to the ball. So does Draco. So does Luna. And drama. And the answers to all of your questions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I actually finished this yesterday but upon reread I decided to rewrite about half of it. It is now two pages shorter. There is a scene that went WAY different than what I originally planned, and the format of Draco's story is completely different and way less detailed. (You can thank me in comments *cheeky grin*). 
> 
> If you are interested in reading the original version, please, let me know and I'll send to you.

Hermione tries to sail through the entrance unnoticed but doesn’t consider the crush of press or Shacklebolt taking audience with virtually everyone. By the time she’s through the doors and deposits her cloak, thirty minutes have gone, her eyes are dazed with the imprint of a hundred flash bulbs, her hair has fallen (and frizzed out) significantly from its updo and her robes are looking slightly more than lightly rumpled (despite her best efforts at keeping them tidy ).

Refusing to feel self-conscious about – once again – failing to appear sharp and adult, she gathers the crumbling mortar of her confidence and makes way into the banquet hall/ballroom, smiling at and greeting people she knows, merely nodding at people she doesn’t. 

She waves at Harry and Ginny when she catches sight of them then Ron and his date, Susan Bones. They gesture that she should join them, but she’s famished and thirsty and returns that she will be perusing the refreshments first. 

The wish has been echoing in her mind like a death knell, and she finds her throat is parched.

The Ministry really outdid itself, she thinks, taking in the enchanted balloons floating overhead, the sparkling dance floor, the glimmering chandeliers, and shining ice sculptures. There is a band playing in the corner and a decent number of couples twirling about in beautiful dress robes and perfumed coifs. She smiles lightly.

The whole event is somewhat pretentious but _inclusive, normal and peaceful_. It’s nice to see after fighting so long for it.

She’s halfway to the flowered, plated tables when two ministers swoop in and start talking to her. At first it seems to be a simple introduction/greeting but morphs into a discussion about two bills currently poised to go to vote they would like her to publicly support; and while she knows these events are traditionally used for this sort of engagement, her entire body feels heavy that this is all she is ever sought out for nowadays.

Ten minutes in and still no closer to her friends or sustenance, Hermione resists shrugging into the tightness growing between her shoulder blades, works at keeping the smile on her face and bites her tongue just a little harder against the unkind things she wants to say. (She will say them later while not in public and in the presence of the media. After all, she is a seasoned adult not an over-emotional teenager).

Distantly, she hears a slight disturbance behind her, watches expressions of surprise bloom over the ministers’ faces. Then a firm touch at the small of her back has her jumping (just a little), one hand making for her wand, pausing when a flute of champagne appears in her line of vision (her eyes go cross for just a moment, the bubbly is so close).

“Good evening esteemed ministers.” _Draco_ . . . His voice is smooth velvet and dark promises, curling into her ear and shivering down her spine. And then he is there, in the (man) flesh, hair tousled perfectly and dressed in the height of perfectly tailored fashion (though she can’t stop a soft giggle: his necktie, while black, is not a bow and the clip at his breastbone is silver with a miniature crow roosting just so). 

He stands beside her, his body angled just slightly toward her as he continues to offer the glass of champagne, undaunted by her lack of reaction. “Ms. Granger, may I say you are exquisite.” He doesn’t wait for her to look up into his face or offer her hand for a shake, but takes her fingers – oh so gently, raises and bows over them (is it her imagine that his mouth quirks up into his famous smirk when he spies the gold cuff he had gifted her?), his breath whispering over the digits as his eyes catch and hold hers in a dark, swirling smolder that freezes her in place – a scared rabbit hypnotized by the snake.

She’s wearing one of the more modest gowns in the room yet she’s never felt so naked (and not just in a physical sense). It briefly occurs to her to wonder if he’s using Legilimency before discarding the idea. She’s been on the receiving end of that spell; and while the experience was similarly unnerving, it definitely wasn’t _pleasurable_ (making the back of her neck warm to hot before spreading out to her face and cleavage) or (dare she think) . . . _arousing_.

Clearing her throat, she manages a smile and murmurs, “Thank you, Mr. Malfoy” before spying a flash of platinum across the dance floor to see Narcissa Malfoy staring intently at her son, one delicate hand pressed daintily to her slack mouth.

Resolute, she turns to the ministers still gaping at her previously missing companion (who still retains custody of her hand – just a footnote, really . . . nothing to signify), “If you’ll excuse me gentleman, I’m sure you’ll forgive two old school mates a bit of catching up.”

They agree, falling over themselves to placate her before moving on. She tries to pretend it doesn’t hurt that they can’t/won’t treat her like a normal person. (Then she tries to pretend she doesn’t care if Draco notices her disquiet. She doesn’t want to seem ungrateful or graceless.) 

Before she can really register that she is _alone_ (or as close as one can get to it in a populated ballroom) with a very handsome (very _sharp_ and _adult_ ) Draco Malfoy (never mind that they’ve been alone in her room many times over, this time he just happens to be there to grant her very embarrassing, very _inappropriate_ wish), she pastes on a bright smile, deliberately removes her hand from his then – with equal deliberation – takes his arm (and attempts to _not_ appreciate the firm width of his bicep). “You should speak to your mother.”

He stares at her, inscrutable, “Of course. You will accompany me, won’t you?”

She nods, wordless for the sudden lump in her throat. There is no doubt in her mind that she has made a grave error with that wish, and they will need to discuss it soon.

His opposite hand comes up to pat her fingers, curled about the bend of his elbow, then lingers, skin on skin, caressing softly (driving her mental with the sensual touch).

Her entire world seems to hinge on the contact for just a moment, her vision narrowing to some nondescript meaningless point as he leads her around the dancefloor. 

Feeling completely off-center, she turns her head to find Harry who is watching them like a hawk (briefly, she wonders who would win that fight – a crow versus a hawk), the depth and feeling in his eyes distorted by candlelight reflecting off his glasses. He holds his hands up, (“What fuckery is this?”); and she answers with her brows, (“I’m perfectly fine and will explain later.”)

Before she can (truly) get her bearings, Hermione finds herself (expectedly but still surreally) in the company of the Malfoy matriarch in addition to the son. Narcissa mumbles a sweet greeting to Hermione before pouncing on Draco, embracing him and kissing his cheeks (not only to signify her motherly affection but more prudently to hide her tears) before smacking him about the shoulders and demanding an explanation.

Hermione doesn’t miss Draco’s sidelong glance before he untangles her hand from his arm, kisses her knuckles (as her body erupts into goose flesh), and requests that she allow him a moment with his mother alone.

She smiles at the older woman while addressing Draco, “Please. Take as much time as you need.” 

Breathing a little easier as she walks back towards the refreshment table, she acknowledges she is at once jealous of his time and glad to stall him in granting her wish; because while she really, truly wants what she’s asked for – she doesn’t want this tainted of magical influence. This . . . this should be genuine, given freely, and splendidly _ethical_.

And she’s realizing too late, this cannot possibly be those things when cultivated by a wish-granting feather quill. Hermione feels herself plummeting further and further into a quagmire of guilt. 

With some effort, putting one foot in front of the other and counting her breaths against the sudden need to heave, she finally makes it to the refreshments. In short order, she downs three glasses of champagne (in addition to the one Draco had given her), chased with water, to stay her feet from fleeing the party altogether. 

When her hands are empty of drink, she fiddles with the gold cuff, feeling a phantom burning beneath the cool gold. 

“Where did you get that gaudy thing?” Ron’s voice is close, just above and behind her. She whirls about, her fingers still fiddling with the cuff then alternately pulling her sleeve over it.

“Pardon?” Her eyes track a waiter balancing a tray of filled champagne flutes, suddenly parched again. (Since their “break up” – a conscious uncoupling, if you will - following three weeks of infrequent kisses and many filial cuddles – Ron would approach her, usually after imbibing during a ‘dry spell’ (read: two to three days after calling it quits with his girlfriend of the month – his date tonight is, notably, not his girlfriend), to propose reconciling (even though it was something they both patently and expressly did. Not. Want. Him because they really did work out better as best friends. Her – ditto - with the added caveat that she couldn’t stand the repeated reminders that she had never been _anyone’s_ first choice. Certainly, it was quite an uncomfortable pattern and yet another reason it was time to get her own place).)

Ron gestures to her wrist and the cuff. “That bracelet. It looks nothing like you would pick out or wear.”

“Oh.” She rubs the polished gold with two fingers. “It was a birthday present. I just never had an opportunity to wear it before tonight.” 

A ginger brow rises over one blue eye clouding with suspicion. “Who from? I know it wasn’t me or Harry.” Deeply aware that he is an auror-in-training and that this is beginning to sound suspiciously like an interrogation, Hermione decides to proceed with caution given the actual gifter is a former nemesis (and Death Eater – it really can’t be overstated no matter how he turned to the light at the last moment and seems much better behaved at present) and that self-same former nemesis was just (gently, sensually, consentually (also _innocently_ – another thing that cannot be overstated)) touching her in full view of the party.

She lowers her eyes to the floor when something dark and hot tingles in her belly at the memory of fingertips running along the back of her hand, a strong arm beneath layers, and molten silver eyes burning into hers as if they can see right into the heart of her.

Shaking her head and feeling even more desperate for a drink, she meets Ron’s gaze, smiles widely and goes for redirection, “I’m sorry. What did you need again?”

He stares at her for what seems a long moment before stuffing his hands in his coat pockets. “Just wanted to see if you would like to join us on the other side.”

Her eyes narrow at him. “You’re about as subtle as a freight train, Weasley.”

He shrugs with a searching sort of expression that has her hackles rising. (And wouldn’t that be just like him to start yet _another_ fight at yet _another_ ball.) “At least I’m not consorting with the enemy . . . _again_.”

Unpleasant heat suffuses her face and her hand goes immediately to her wand though she knows she won’t be using it (she’ll punch him first). If Ron wants a fucking fight in public at a rather formal gathering, then he’s going to _get one_ (although a part of her balks at the reasons why he is being such an arse, another part really wants the stress relief from a prospective duel, and an even greater part is once again heartbroken that she can’t seem to enjoy _one – single – formal – gathering_ without Ron Weasley _absolutely ruining everything_ ).

Fortunately, before she can shoot off even one jinx, a soft, melodious voice queries, “May I cut in?”

Hermione turns on a heel to find Luna Lovegood – looking lovely in butter yellow and her usual radish earrings – standing just there, studying the tension between her and Ron with her usual spaced out expression. 

Ron rubs a hand behind his neck, bemused and embarrassed. “Er, we’re not actually dancing, Luna.”

The blonde’s eyes widen as her mouth forms a small “oh” before she directs her attention to Hermione, holding out a hand, “Well, then. Shall we dance, Hermione?”

Hermione and Ron both stare at their friend, incredulous (just for a few moments on Hermione’s part). She eventually decides, _What the hell?_ , and takes the offer.

The two young women sway for a time to a string ensemble before Luna breaks the silence. “It’s good that he finally found you.”

Hermione blinks, “I’m sorry?”

Luna smiles absently, blue eyes drifting over Hermione’s shoulder. “Draco Malfoy. It’s good that he found you. He’s been looking so long, you see.”

They turn about as they sway (completely ignoring the other partyers’ gawking and whispers) as Hermione tries and fails to interpret Luna’s meaning. A flash of pale at the corner of her vision draws her to glance to the far corner of the dance floor, near the musicians. There she takes in Mrs. Malfoy at Draco’s elbow as he is embraced – quite enthusiastically – by a tall woman with honey blonde hair that falls silky and straight across her (bare) back. The unknown woman’s dress is gorgeous and well-cut, and Hermione is hard-pressed to find a reason not to think they would make a striking couple (even though the thought makes her skin itch and eyes burn).

She makes the fatal error of asking, “Who is that?” (It somehow escapes her notice that she doesn’t qualify exactly which ‘who’ she is curious of, expecting Luna to somehow just know).

Luna hums, “Ah. Astoria Greengrass. She must be quite relieved.” Hermione feels the hands holding hers as they dance squeeze just a little before Luna gives her an interested look. “Draco and she were negotiating a marriage contract before he disappeared.”

An involuntary squeak breaks from her, and she can’t control her limbs as she drops her hands to cup at her chest. Her feet are suddenly frozen to the floor. She feels nauseated and sweaty and like someone punched through her chest wall to grab and squeeze her heart to the point of hemorrhage. Her brain (the most valued organ) ceases normal function as every thought in her head shatters into panicked confusion. (What is wrong with her? Why is she feeling like the world is at its end? Why can’t she breathe? Is she dying? Is that what this is?)

From far away, as if under water, she hears Luna say her name. 

Scrambling for some purchase in reality, she focuses on Luna’s concerned face, tries to smile but only manages a watery grimace. She doesn’t even realize she’s crying until Luna tenderly wipes the tear tracks away. 

Her friend watches her closely, cautiously cupping hands over hers and pressing into her chest as if – together – they might succeed in holding her heart in place. “Maybe _you_ haven’t found _him_ yet.”

Feeling lost and embarrassed, Hermione presents her back to the Malfoys and Astoria Greengrass and shakily brings her hands up to rub her face (probably ruining her make up but she can’t find it in her to care past the near audible shattering going on in her chest). “I’m going home.” She doesn’t know if Luna hears her, her voice is so hollow and thread-like.

But Luna does hear, nods and wraps her up in a loving embrace. “I’ll just tell Harry and Ron, shall I?”

Hermione – again – tries to smile her thanks before making her staggering way to the exit.

****

By the time Hermione arrives home (after _walking_ four miles then catching the night bus – she didn’t trust herself to apparate in her current state), the pain in her chest has numbed along with the rest of her. She feels unbearably heavy and misplaced and just empty, her mind pronouncing the fatalistic, _Well, that’s that_.

Distantly, she wonders if this is what receiving the Dementor’s Kiss is like.

She shuffles through the house, in the similarly empty darkness, listening to the silence repeatedly broken by the _tick, tick, tick_ of a clock, longing for Crookshanks to cuddle and missing her mother poignantly.

Because it’s just beginning to come clear why the news of Draco’s engagement hurts her this much, and she really needs a sympathetic ear to have it all out.

After all, she had thought . . . . and he seemed to (but he was trying to break the curse, wasn’t he? Maybe everything she had felt from him had simply been self-serving desperation dressed up as flirtation?). . . . and there was this _hope_ . . . She shakes her head violently as she starts tearing at the pins in her hair.

Could it be she had brought this upon herself? _Maybe_ , she thinks as she finds the little scrap of parchment with her hastily scrawled wish on it and chucks it in the rubbish bin, _maybe “I wish for a romantic evening” had been too broad_ (she tries to find the quill for many minutes with no luck – perhaps it’s in her bag downstairs?). Maybe he had interpreted the wish as a generalization. 

_Or maybe_ . . . she sits before the vanity mirror with reddening eyes as something hot and thorny takes up residence in her stomach and pricks at her palms, maybe she doesn’t deserve to be loved as she had begun to hope Draco might love her. 

She sighs as she pulls on her rattiest pajamas, scrubs her face clean, braids her hair. She brushes her teeth without really feeling it, forgets to floss, stumbles to her bed. 

Staring at the ceiling, she counts backwards from fifty then from a hundred then from a thousand – until the burning in her eyes recedes. 

It doesn’t make sense to cry. She has only just admitted to herself that she’s in love. There were never words or claims or promises between them, and tears won’t change a thing – even if Draco _does_ love her, she’s not the type to accept the roles of _home wrecker, other woman or mistress_.

She would just . . . Yes, she will make however many wishes he needs to break the curse then go back to how things were before she found a crow in Mrs. Figg’s garden. He would marry Miss Greengrass and live in his manor with his galleons while she finished her apprenticeship and – hopefully – acquired a more reasonable shift at hospital. (Maybe she would get another pet . . . )

Nodding to herself, she reaches for the lamp switch to shut off the lights when a loud _CRACK!_ resounds through the room and Draco appears – in the same dress robes and crow tie pin, sporting the same smoldering gray eyes and straight nose and sensual mouth. A sensual mouth that is frowning down at her. “Why did you leave?”

His voice is low . . . almost a growl, as if he’s angry, and she can’t think of any good reason why that should be (or why the sound of it makes her – at once – want to bolt and press her body against his). All she really knows is that it is patently unfair for him to be here, interrupting the serious business of her heartbreak.

“I understand congratulations are in order. Miss Greengrass seems lovely. I only wish we had been properly introduced.” It takes all her (already drained) inner strength to keep her voice steady and even. Her word choice is designed to cut – just a tad.

Draco stares at her for long moments. She doesn’t look up, just stares equally long at her bed sheets as she hides her fisted hands beneath them. 

Eventually, she hears his sigh then the rustle of fabric. His warmth falls over her as his cheek is pressed against hers, and he murmurs (in a mere whisper of audible velvet, sliding along her ear drum across the back of her neck and down the length of her spine), “I was hoping for a chance to dance with you.” He pulls back slightly and coaxes her to meet his gaze – warm gray pools clashing with brown. “May I?”

Poised to say ‘no,’ something in his face compels her to stop, think and nod in a wary kind of consent.

He smiles with his eyes, though his mouth remains a perplexing straight line ( _Is he pleased to see me or . . . was it the wish that has him acting strange?_ ), as he offers his hand and straightens to his full height. Hermione swallows heavily before relaxing her hands, shifting her legs over the edge of the bed and allowing him to pull her to her feet. Their eyes remain fixed on each other causing Hermione’s injured heart to beat painfully hard.

She watches dumbly as he pulls her close, as his hand comes to rest low on her back, as he gently eases her fingers to rest on his shoulder and takes the palm of the other hand into his. She is only so aware of the light tremoring of her body as she registers his heat and the fact that he’s spent nearly an entire night in human form. 

He begins to lead her in slow waltz in the small space of her bedroom. Without music. His scent enfolds her, and she realizes he doesn’t smell like a bird. No, his trace is more refined – bergamot and lemon but still with a hint of wind. He smells like a man.

Once, twice, she wets her lips and opens her mouth to ask, “Draco, are you –“

“I want to tell you a story.”

She blinks at the interruption, notices he’s focused straight ahead rather than at her and forces herself to be patient. “O—okay.” (Once again she is thoroughly confused, not a pleasant feeling for her and quite worrying for the recent frequency.)

He takes a deep breath and she can feel the tension in his shoulders loosen as he exhales, angles his head down to gaze at her – his eyes are tinged gold in the dim lamp light. And there, in the familiar comfort of her room where they had first begun this adventure together, Draco tells a story, _his_ story. His voice is soft but strong as he begins (“Once upon a time, there was a boy who head was filled with horrible lies disguised as unalterable facts), meandering at a hypnotic cadence through their first meeting (“Eventually, he went away to school and his world expanded beyond the familiar propaganda of his home. There, away from his parents, certain realities began to filter in. He met a girl who – daily – proved that the very cornerstone of his world knowledge was false.”)

Here he pauses, a light flush taking the pale of his cheeks, painting the bridge of his aristocratic nose. The smile that comes to her mouth is lost to a shocked gasp when he smiles back – amused and whole. Without warning, he lifts her up by inches before settling her on top of his own feet. She’s never been pressed so close to another person that she has no choice but to settle her head on his shoulder (at least, not without the prerequisite life or death situation). 

When he continues, his tone is deeper . . . edged with a coarseness that wasn’t there before. He talks of the boy’s cowardice and loyalty; of how his conscience began to sound like the girl, reminding him that all he looked to for definition was worth less than nothing; of how – too soon – reality fashioned a penance for him in the form of a Dark Wizard who took possession of the boy’s home and ransomed the boy’s family.

Pausing again, no doubt to collect himself in the ugly face of war memories, Draco bends slightly to nuzzle her hair. It is only natural that her body stretches up – breaking the dance frame – to hold him in possibly the most complete embrace she’s ever experienced. She turns her head so that his chin rests against her forehead, one ear turned to his chest, listening to his heartbeat. Her voice breaks just a little when she urges, “Tell me more.”

He nods and presses a kiss to her hairline. (She wants to cry for the freedom of affection that flowing between them.) They no longer waltz – they’re minds are too occupied with other things, but they are still turning in slow circles (so close they are nearly one), they are still “dancing”, and she never wants this to end.

He weaves a narrative of betrayal, guilt, and overwhelming fear with the accidental harming of innocents and the very intentional attempt at murder – all for the sake of a mother. (His grip tightens across her middle, both arms squeezing her till she couldn’t discern where he ends and she begins.)

“War changed everything. The girl was taken to the boy’s home. She was tortured for hours, and he was forced to watch. She was . . . magnificent. Her bravery and determination were insurmountable. She never broke – not through hours of the cruciatus, not through threats or a branding with a cursed knife.”

The boy was sick with it, he tells her, with his adoration and shame. “The only thing he could give was his silence and what small amount of time that could be bought with it.” 

He whispers in her ear that all of the boy’s doubts solidified in that moment and the world his parents, friends, and society had constructed for him was destroyed. “The boy felt so lost then. He no longer knew who he was or where he fit or what he was supposed to do.” 

Her fingers flex into his robes. He tugs the end of her braid and breathes deeply, in and out, a warm puff of breath against her face trailing down her neck. She suddenly wishes he were a bird again, to pat his head and pet his feathers.

Eventually, he breathes, the war ends, and the boy – now a man – was tried for his misdeeds. For once, he is brave and honest, facing the consequences personally and head on. It was imperative that he admit he was wrong, to express remorse fully and publicly . . . But more than all of that, “especially after the girl-now-a-woman had spoken out on his behalf, I _needed_ to apologize to _you_.”

He leans back, uses two fingers to angle her chin so that they may see each other’s faces, bare and direct and raw. “I will never deserve your forgiveness, Hermione; but please know that I am whole-heartedly sorry for everything my family and I have done to hurt you.”

“You’ve already apologized . . . on my birthday.”

“Not in person. I was a coward.”

She goes up on her toes (still standing on his shoes) to kiss his cheek. She ignores a cold stab of guilt, makes a silent apology to Astoria Greengrass. “Is that the end of the story?” 

Draco’s hands come up to support her craned neck, his thumbs tracing the line of her jaw, sending tingles through to her fingertips. His gaze never leaves her as he tells her of the man after trial. He was given a lenient probation in addition to a few hefty fines, and despite his previous terrorist activities, he finds himself still rather sought after by the young Misses of his society as the ranks had been thinned quite a bit by the Dark Lord and through war. 

Though the man was not interested in confining himself to a courtship or engagement (“he was too involved in a one-man struggle to keep up with the girl-now-a-woman’s exploits”), he soon found himself in negotiation at the behest of his mother. “Reluctantly, he entered into a courtship with the younger Miss Greengrass despite his better judgement; and after several chaperoned as well as unsupervised meetings, Miss Greengrass pointed out – quite rightly – that the man was not behaving in the manner of a besotted fiancé as she expected and desired.” 

The man and the Miss quarreled when the man told her honestly that he could never lover as his wife. The Miss was incensed, scream that he hadn’t given her the fair chance she deserved. When it was clear they were at an impass, the man broke off negotiations, ordering the Miss back to her home and family. “In answer, she pulled her wand and cursed him into the body of a crow.”

Hermione gapes at him. “ _Astoria_ cursed you?”

He sighs tiredly. It is only then she realizes they have stopped in their circular movements, now simply standing tightly together in each other’s arms as if afraid to let go. She steps off of his feet, and while he allows that degree of distance, he keeps her as close as possible, his fingers beginning a rhythmic, soothing pattern up and down her back.

“The curse, as it turned out, was quite personal and thoroughly customized by the caster to reflect her desires and _correct_ the man’s response to them. He could only be rid of the curse by finding his perfect match and granting her wishes without complaint or censure.”

He chuckles, and the sound tastes like dark honey on her tongue, aching her teeth and drizzling over her expectations like candy fall. “Obviously, she hoped the curse would be broken by herself.” 

Suddenly, she wishes for a glass of water, her throat is so dry with wary anticipation. Her chest isn’t hurting as much as it had been – calming into a sweet, heavy ache echoed in the base of her belly; but she still doesn’t want to get her hopes up too high. So, she listens as he goes on.

“Wishes granted would be rewarded as time in human form but wouldn’t break the curse altogether.”

This she has figured out through observation. Her features scrunch up with confusion. “But . . . are you . . . is it broken now? I had theorized a certain number of wishes had to be granted to break the spell. It seemed to grow weaker with each new granted wish.”

He shakes his head, gray eyes gleaming down at her. “It’s broken.” Something thorny within her subsides with the confirmation while another something within her tries to reconcile the permanent loss of her crow friend. “To break the curse, you had to wish for yourself something I had already granted or planned to give without your knowledge.”

She contemplates that for a moment. “Draco, I’m not really sure . . . I understand how the curse was broken. Which wish did you anticipate?”

He stares at her a moment before abruptly letting her go (it’s so jarring, her entire being screams _come back, come back, **please**_ ). As if he can sense it, he doesn’t go far, but even those few inches seem too much tonight.

He runs his hands through his hair, visibly agitated, before his capable fingers are loosening his tie. She’s so focused on those long, sinuous digits, she almost doesn’t notice the red of his cheeks and the scorching brightness of his eyes as he turns back to her. “Hermione, wish or no wish, I had already planned to seduce you into a courtship tonight.”

If he had pulled out his wand and stupefied her, she would not have been more stunned. “Oh.” Her soul is humming. Her hands and feet and breasts feel warm and buzzy. Her eyes can’t look away from him. Her hope is a tangible thing, filling every dark space within her with heat and light so strong, the skin of her face feels tight and her teeth clench. 

Heart pounding, Hermione hoarsely entreats, “Tell me the rest of the story, please.”

His smile is beautiful, true. It’s the first time she’s ever seen something so pure from him, and the sight of it makes her knees so weak, she actually begins to fall; but he’s close enough, his hands haul her to him again, locking them together at the small of her back and taking her weight. (She tries not to sigh out loud despite her very _existence_ whispering its pleasure).

They are so close, his lips brush hers as he continues the story of the man-turned crow – that he flew aimlessly for weeks, feeling a pull to somewhere but resisting it, until one day some muggle ball accidentally hit him midflight. The injured crow found himself in a garden and was found by the girl-turned woman he had known of but not known truly.

Being a bird, he couldn’t tell her who he truly was and the frustration caused him to lean on bad habits, behaving like a world class prat. But the woman he had come to so admire was patient and kind. He settled into his new form, cleaned up his behavior, and the woman began to talk to him – as if to an old friend. 

First, she began to tell the bird about her time at work, friends and coworkers, the daily news. Then, she started telling her thoughts and plans and dreams. Shortly, he knew everything about her and the world as she saw it. To him, she ceased to be the girl-turned-woman on a pedestal, for though she was indeed brave and brilliant and good, she was also beautifully flawed. 

Gray eyes caught and held hers with an intensity that sent her shivering. “And sooner than I could have ever anticipated, I began to fall in love with you, Hermione.”

Heart stuttering in her chest, Hermione’s breath catches and before she can say anything, his mouth is (finally, _Finally!_ ) hot on hers in a kiss that has her fingers grasping desperately at his shoulders and hair, her toes curling against the carpet. 

It’s a timeless sort of kiss, immeasurable, in that it seems at once too short and incredibly long. When they part, she sucks in oxygen and holds on to his steadying presence, unable to _truly_ believe everything that has occurred tonight. “The cursed man and the woman, do they . . . . . do they live happily ever after?”

He pecks her lips, runs his hand down her braid then wraps the length around his hand. “That depends on you, darling.”

She smiles, loving that she can feel the reflection of it forming on his mouth. “Yes.”

“Yes, what?”

Her knees buckle again when she feels his fingertips beneath her shirt, brushing the bare skin of her stomach, sending her into sensual overload. “Yes.” She huffs, “To courting.” And then, earnestly, with hands on his cheeks and eyes locked on eyes, “I want to know all of you too.”

Draco’s elation seems to shine through his body starting from his nervous feet up through trembling hands to sparkle from his eyes and bright grin. “Then I think it’s safe to say they do.”

Hermione’s brain is complete and total mush as he leans down again, his eyes darkening to pewter with obvious intent. “They what?”

He whispers, “Live happily ever after.” 


End file.
